Precepts and Perceptions
by TriplePirouette
Summary: Bruce Wayne muses at a party about his identity and the possibility of a love life.


Title: Precepts and Perceptions

By: TriplePirouette

Category: Angst, post Dark Knight

Rating: M/R

Disclaimer: They're not mine- I'm a poor and having fun... take pity...

Distribution: my site, , anywhere else please ask first :)

Summary: "Bruce Wayne did not have as much sex as he suspected people thought he did." Bruce Wayne muses at a party…

Author's notes: I finally jumped into Nolan-Verse Batman fiction, and didn't see much of what I like to read- so I wrote some! I hope others will want to read it, too. Just a little piece, I'm not allowed to start another big project until I finish my looming CSI story… Thanks to Michael for the beta… his second venture beta-ing and he cleaned this up immensely!

Feedback PLEASE at: I love anything constructive! Blatant flames, however, will be disregarded and used to roast s'mores....

*~*~*

Bruce Wayne did not have as much sex as he suspected people thought he did. While his so-called playboy ways were important to keep up, important to use as a smoke screen to dispel any hint of who he became at night, he was careful to keep the beautiful women that adorned his arms in the evening not only there physically, but at a metaphorical arms' length as well.

Angeline, his date tonight, wasn't that different. Tonight was only the second time he'd been out with the buzzed about model, she hung from his right arm quietly, smiling at other well known bachelors and inserting phony laughter into any conversation that seemed to warrant it.

If his dates weren't gold diggers who expected him to lavish them with gifts, they were actresses or models hoping to advance their careers through a few nights, or even a month, at the side of the city's golden boy. He rarely let them linger that long, or even at all. It hadn't seemed the gentlemanly thing to do at first: to go through women so quickly- but he found it not only kept his secret, it fed even more into the stereotypical lifestyle he was portraying. He used the women for his façade, and they used him to their own purposes. For now, it worked.

When he needed to, he slaked his lust with women who used him for his body as much, if not more, than he used them: party girl socialites who were just as likely to call him on random evenings, asking if he were free for a drink. It was easy to explain the scars away to women who weren't all that interested in them in the first place: a mountain climb gone wrong, a crashed Jaguar… it seemed anything that reminded them of his social status took their mind off the lines marring his body.

His double life took up all of his time, one man by day, another by night, a third at home with his closest confidants. Three men, really, with no room left, no man left, for love.

Angeline smiled up at him coyly, shaking her Champaign flute. It was an easy out, and with a smile he didn't feel he excused himself from the small circle of familiar socialites that had gathered around him, talking nonsense about things he cared little for. As he moved to the bar he allowed his heart to follow his former thought process as he ordered new drinks.

His heart had ached for Rachel after she died. Batman could not grieve, nor could either side of Bruce. She hadn't really been his at that point like he'd intended. So he kept a quiet vigil for her in his heart, but moved on in body. Moved on to model after dancer after actress in the hopes of burying the loss he felt for a woman with whom he had shared everything with, for a woman he felt could love all of him. But by his own design the violence of his other life had come too close. He'd pushed her out in front, laid her neck out like a lamb for the slaughter, only to see his mistake after it was too late.

The violence saved him now some nights. As a wanted vigilante, no one thought twice if he threw an extra punch at a car thief or a cat burglar. The criminals were still quietly delivered to Gordon. If they did talk their word wasn't exactly trusted and it became just another myth to add to the mystery of the Batman. An extra punch here, an extra kick there, and his rage, his lust, was fed for another night. Sometimes his lust ran so close with the rage that it didn't matter which he pursued: a woman or an Arkham inmate, either would bring him to a dreamless sleep some nights.

But the mansion was lonely. He was lonely. He grabbed the two flutes from the bar and wandered back to his date, firmly pushing a smile back onto his face as he rejoined the conversation about the current state of the city's police department. He could only live this way so long. He'd finally lived long enough to see himself the villain, in public opinion if not in deed. Despite his best intentions he'd managed to get people he loved killed. Revenge left him hollow and with the city finally helping itself he was beginning to wonder if it was time to hang up the cape… leave Batman behind, relax his façade, and move on with his life. He made another in a long line of off-handed jokes about the man who dressed up in a bat costume, those around him laughed, and all the while it left him wondering if what he said about himself wasn't true.

It was thoughts like these that triggered the dark corners of his mind, suggesting the worst case scenarios. Reminding him of the sacrifices he was making so that hopefully no one else would have to, reminding him that the Joker had escaped from Arkham once… and could do it again.

But as Bruce Wayne looked across the room his mind clicked back into place. He sipped the Champaign in his glass and watched the woman there, the woman in the blue dress, as sure as he could be that she possessed a façade of her own. Her eyes held the same twinkle he tried to mask when he played to his stereotype for the same crowd of rich socialites that surrounded them tonight. He wanted to find out what was behind that smile and that twinkle, wanted to talk to her somewhere that wasn't an uptight, glib parade of wealth, wanted to know how she felt about duality and secret identities.

He wanted to know more than her name and the few trite pleasantries they'd exchanged at the past three parties where they'd crossed paths. He wanted to tell her about his secret life and who he really was. He wanted to explain where he'd gotten each and every one of his scars: a laceration from a bank robbery on his shoulder, the chipped bone from Scarecrow's men on his hip, the Joker's razor's scar along his bicep, the six stitches across his knee after he had fallen off of his bike when he was seven…

For the first time, he felt a stirring of something other than anger, rage, and grief. Watching her from across the room he wished that he hadn't brought the anorexic model as his date, hadn't been quoted in the paper just today as saying that one girlfriend was far too few for his tastes. He untangled himself from Angeline's arm, making excuses and disappearing into the crowd, hoping for a moment of anonymity and to maybe just get a little bit closer to her…

But he wondered for a moment if he was turning her into his Harvey Dent, his symbol of change. He knew next to nothing about the woman, hadn't the courage to move from his spot, in fact, to find out, but he was banking on that twinkle in her eye. Bruce Wayne was hoping, praying, wishing that there was more to her- more to the heiress and business woman than she tried to show everyone. He wondered if she would reveal it to him.

He turned back to the bar to put his glass down, and when he moved again, she was next to him.

"Did a limo drop you off or do you have a fantastically fast car out back?"

He looked into the twinkling eyes he'd watched from afar all night, her mask of…_something_… still in place, and played along. "Will a Lamborghini do?"

She grabbed his hand, "Perfect," grabbed her clutch, and led him into the hallway.

"Where are we going?" he asked, already fishing the keys from his back pocket as she led him through the house to a side exit where he could see a sea of ostentatious cars and limos parked on grass that would no doubt be manicured back to health in the morning.

She waved at the security guard posted there, a smile apparently all the ID she needed to weave through the luxury before them. Bruce unlocked the car, flashing the lights, and with a quick lift of her eyebrows in appreciation of his clue, she led him to the silver roadster. Dropping his hand, she slid around to the passenger side as he watched in fascination. She lifted the handle and opened the door, smiling at him over the roof. "Anywhere but here," she answered before she slid in, the door's click dull in the night air.

He smiled and tapped the roof before joining her. "Yes, ma'am."

Bruce Wayne did not have as much sex as he suspected people thought he did. Tomorrow's gossip column would wax poetic about how he'd left his date for a romantic escape… it would postulate and hypothesize and wonder just what exactly had happened between the two of them. For the moment, he didn't care. As she sat back into the leather seat, crossing her body with the seatbelt he'd never seen any other female use in his car, he could almost see her social pretense fall away from her and when she smiled at him again, he had no choice but to smile back. It didn't matter where they went, or what they did. It didn't matter what they weren't saying, or what they would. All that mattered as he roared the engine to life was that tonight, he was doing something different.


End file.
